


love us again

by AlToHi



Category: 88rising, Cancer Crew, FilthyFrank - Fandom, George 'Joji' Miller - Fandom, Joji - Fandom
Genre: Brian Imanuel - Freeform, Cheating, F/M, Heavy Angst, Lily Maymac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 00:24:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlToHi/pseuds/AlToHi
Summary: a one-shot inspired by joji's song 'love us again'





	love us again

* * *

**Love Us Again**

_ So pretty _   
_ Unconventionally pretty, yeah _   
_ Had to work twice as hard _   
_ To never hurt your feelings _

The skin on the sides of her thumbs, rather the increasing lack of it, has started to bleed, tinting the plump beds of her dry lips slightly and filling her mouth with the taste of blood. She frowns at the bite of her new wound, looking down at her fingers and the state she had put them in; seeing the small smudges of red, she’s instantly reminded of words she’s heard constantly while growing up.

Her mother had always told her off for her bad habit, warning her that it was something she should learn to break.

‘_Boys won’t want to hold your hand if they look the way you make them do.’_

Not knowing any better back then and definitely being too young to think about her mom’s words, she always thought hygiene was the biggest culprit for the reprimands she received but she realizes now that, maybe, there is a bigger truth to it after all.

She sighs heavily, balling her hands into soft fists to hide the sight of her mauled fingers, the feeling of guilt adding in with the already explosive mix of emotions going through her.

Her eyes wander from her hands, looking up only to fall on what had caused her growing apprehension in the first place. Almost immediately does her stomach begin to churn - just the mere sight of it triggers another tidal wave of thoughts to flood her head, worsening the already heavy feeling of her anxiety and making her chest feel too tight for her liking - like she truly is submerged underwater.

She doesn’t enjoy how lightheaded and restless this is making her yet, like a deprived addict, her hand had already started to travel over the wood of her desk, fingertips reaching clumsily for her poison.

It is almost automatic for her - she knows what to open in her phone, she knows what she wants to see even though she really doesn’t actually want to fucking see it again. Not for another second, not for another fucking lifetime – yet here she is. Hurting herself seems almost automatic to her. She is torturing herself, she knows it, yet she always tries to make excuses – anything to convince her bruised ego.

The cost? This. All this.

Her whole body rid of heat yet her skin slightly dotted with sweat, her face flushed from an uneasy stinging across her cheeks, and the pain in her chest. _Especially_ the pain in her chest - her heart feeling a little more wounded than usual – vulnerable, beating hard - ready, at any point, to be completely torn apart.

Regardless, slowly, she clutches her phone tighter and allows her thumb to hover. She takes a second to breathe, closing her eyes too before finally letting her finger hit the screen.

She is attentive; her gaze is fixated and absorbing everything the scene in front of her is playing. She watches for a second time drunk faces she did not recognize dancing to songs she’s never heard inside a dark club she’ll never know the name of.

All she _does _know, though, is that in the middle of the shaky Instagram story is George Miller, the man she’s opened her heart and soul to, the man her life has been entwined with for a while now, planting a hand on a slim waist before leaning dangerously close to the prettiest girl she’s ever seen.

The video abruptly cuts away from them before she can see what happened next, only leaving her to her imagination and a heart sitting even heavier in her chest than before.

She doesn’t realize she had started to cry until she hears herself sobbing, the taste of tears invading her mouth. Before she knew it, she is bawling. Completely inconsolable.

Getting up, she nearly drops due to her knees buckling and she’s suddenly overwhelmed with the worst feeling – acceptance. Acceptance that she can’t blame him, acceptance that he _did_ deserve someone as beautiful as her.

She cowers to the bathroom; although her body feels ten stones heavier, she manages to prop herself on the white sink. She forces herself to look at the mirror and the sight alone almost sent her reeling.

Puffy eyes rimmed red, an ugly crimson tint painted on her shiny cheeks, quivering lips.

She is a beautiful girl in the right eyes; her smile residue of summer warmth and her brown eyes as sweet as honey - but some preferred the bite of winter and some thought of mud at the color brown.

A new round of tears come streaming down her face and she finally lets the storm rage over, no longer fighting it back.

Maybe she doesn’t know George too well after all. Maybe he always liked winter a little better than summer and hated how sweet honey tasted.

\-----

The copious amount of alcohol in his system had taken its toll.

George Miller’s head is pounding almost as hard as the music playing but he continues to laugh with his friends, borderline inane, not even knowing what the fuck is actually funny but still enjoying himself immensely in the intoxicated blur of the moment.

Although already shitfaced and the looming threat of passing out breathing heavily down his neck, nothing stops him from reaching for another shot.

He downs the rust-colored drink in one go, not feeling even a tiny bit of the burn as the alcohol makes it way to his throat. All he can think of, all he is looking forward to is a stronger hit – something to really pump his veins.

_I deserve this_, he reassures, shutting down and silencing the last of his superegos’ pleas, reminding himself that he needs to unwind and celebrate all the new projects lined up for his career and all the old ones he’s finally finished.

This is all well-earned.

“Joji! Don’t be a pussy, bro! Keep it flowing!” A familiar voice George cannot recognize in his drunken stupor encourages before a phantom hand from behind presents to him another small glass of the same alcohol he just drank.

He laughs, shaking his head as if to reject it but his fingers already curl around the cup. In another swift motion, the drink is gone and it doesn’t take long until his vision tilts a little more noticeably.

Beside him, Brian Imanuel cheers, nudging his arm with praise before his attention momentarily sidetracks behind George’s head. He then starts to chuckle rather loudly, leaning close to George’s ear to probably tell him why.

He can’t understand shit. George isn’t sure if it’s because of how fucked up he is or if it’s the noise of the whole club, but he can barely make out any of the younger boy’s muddled words. All he heard clearly were ‘she’ and ‘right now’.

Before he could ask Brian to repeat what he said though, a light tap on his shoulder pauses the words on his tongue.

“Joji, it’s been a while,” A sultry voice resonates, a voice he is surprised he can pin a face to immediately.

“Do you still remember who I am? Or are you too much of a rockstar now?” She teases with a velvet laugh.

Although his wits are practically spinning, he turns back a little too quickly. His brown eyes wander before he can stop himself, bewildered but eager. He hopes it is who he is thinking of.

“Lily,” George says almost in pleasant disbelief, the beautiful girl of his past in the flesh and right in front of him, looking ethereal. A rush of sensation moons in his chest but he tries to ignore it, passing it off as a drunken hiccup from not seeing her in so long.

Lily sends him a tender smile but her eyes – the way they regard him, the way they glint so knowingly – sent him a different message.

He is absolutely inebriated, he can’t tell if she is too, but he sees right through those long lashes and bright hazel eyes. All these years, she still hasn’t changed a bit. All these years, he still doesn’t know he’s falling right for it.

“So, you _do_ still remember me.” She jests further, bringing a thin black straw from a glass filled with clear liquid to her red lips. George, completely out of it, watches her and she smiles even wider.

“How can I not? You’re the inspiration for my sad songs,” It’s his turn to tease and she chuckles, her head dipping slightly and sending a few stray strands of gold hair to frame her face. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got happier ones now. I heard you've been off the market for some time,” she states casually, accompanying her sentence with a soft nod to emphasize her feigned nonchalance, but he knows her too well.

She wants to know who it is he is dating but he isn’t going to feed her any info just so she can pry.

George grins. “You heard right,” is all he says.

Even with the hard bass of the loud music, silence shrouds them both and he picks his head up to see why she stopped talking. Lily, unreadable, just centers on him, her gaze intense.

“We weren’t all bad memories though, were we?” She asks, suddenly softer and serious, like she’s seeking for his reassurance. Her sudden switch of mood takes him back a bit but, nonetheless, he shakes his head with slight vigor.

It’s the truth anyway.

“Of course not,” he says, hazy but gentle brown eyes peering through hazel ones with sincerity. The passing neon lights of blue, green, red and white paint different hues and angles on her skin and all he can think of is how pretty she is.

She leans in a tad bit closer, like his words had beckoned her forward.

“We can make happier memories, right?”

The smile on George’s face falls a little, unsure where the question would lead and how on Earth he’s supposed to answer it. He looks around as discreetly as he can, trying to see if anyone’s paying attention or watching.

“Yeah,” is all he can say because he doesn’t know what else is supposed to come out of his mouth and because Lily started to close the gap between their bodies.

Automatic to him because of you, George’s hand lowers until a different girl’s waist is in his large palms and his eyes close, a different but familiar girl’s sweet breath fanning over his lips.

_I deserve this_, is all he can think.

_ No entry _   
_ Trespasser of the century _   
_ Trusting me is twice as hard _   
_ I can help you if you let me _

No matter how hard she tries, for the life of her, she doesn’t and _can’t_ remember any other moment than now wherein she’s felt this utterly devastated. Anguished, tremendously distraught - horribly _betrayed_.

She can’t function properly, like the two halves of her brain had been split and her body can’t understand her own movements. The fact that her breaths are so short and she feels physically unable to draw longer ones into her burning lungs is making this whole ordeal worse.

She’s shaking - her hands, her legs, her chest, her lips – and she feels so close to blurring out.

This is what it must feel like to go insane, _absolutely_ insane.

She’s never experienced anything like this. She can’t even look at him, the man that she loves, without seeing the deepest shade of crimson through tear-stained eyes.

If it means getting rid of these tormenting feelings, she’d rip her fucking heart out right then and there. It is beginning to be unbearable the more his haunting and treacherous words sunk in.

“Please talk to me,” that wretchedly beautiful voice belonging to that wretchedly beautiful man nearly whispers in the same way that used to bring her so much comfort.

Now it just drove her mad, like listening to nails on a chalkboard.

When the soft creaking of the floorboards fills the otherwise silent apartment, her head quickly snaps up to see George trying to move towards her.

Her body clenches and, finally coming undone, she furiously puts a hand up and yells at him to stay the fuck away from her.

He’s taken aback from the harshness of her words and he can only blink, completely stunned at the woman before him.

He’s never seen her like this, not once in the entirety of their friendship and the 2 years they spent together. She is always so strong, always so kind and gentle and loving and everything he wanted and needed but did not deserve.

He trespassed into her life. She always told him she wasn’t the type of girl to get into a relationship or to settle down, saying things like that were too uncertain and that kind of uncertainty scared her to no extent. But he wanted her, he wanted her so much he did everything it took to get her to trust him completely.

Back then, he didn’t think he was capable of ever hurting her the way he did.

She was doing so great before him, he knew it - he also knows she’d probably be doing better, especially right now, if it weren’t for the house he built inside her heart. 

_How cruel of me_, he thinks, sickeningly repulsed with himself.

His heavy reverie is broken when he hears her sobbing turn into pained, desolate bawling, her body crumpling to the floor.

He watches with a plagued expression and it’s taking everything in him not to collapse down next to her and just fucking take her in his arms – to hold her until it doesn’t hurt anymore and he knows that might take forever.

He felt weak and witnessing every possible emotion beat her body up– he’d give everything, do anything, to take back what he did to her.

But, of course, he can’t – and that’s why falling in love is too uncertain, the kind of uncertain that should scare anyone to no extent.

_ Either way, either way, either way, either way _   
_ You would've been fine _   
_ Write a page, write a page, write a page, write a page _   
_ I'ma write a long time _

_‘This house is no longer a home; this house is no longer a home’_ is the mantra she’s been reciting over and over again in her head to help her cope with all that’s transpired in the last few days.

A soft grunt escapes through her parted mouth as she stacks another pile of her belongings in a box, wiping away the small beads of sweat decorating her forehead and the strands of hair that stuck to it.

If it weren’t for the bullet hole throbbing in her chest, she’d be proud of herself for all this. She’s choosing herself – even if it meant leaving behind the life she’s known for so long, the life and the man she never knew she dreamed of.

At that thought, her pink lips draw thin and a stream of hot flashes immediately spread across her face, making the nerves beneath her skin hum uncomfortably. She bends over a bit, mediating the brewing emotions in her chest.

It’s been a few days since she last saw George; after he told her of his infidelity, he chose to give her the space she deserved – it was the least he could do after all. The ultimate bare minimum.

When her eyes grow glassy and she finds herself sucking desperate breaths in, the telltale signs of another meltdown begin to ensue. She grabs at the shelf before her, clutching the wood like a lifeline before leaning her forehead on it.

Every night she spent alone on the bed too big for one, on a bed that was filled with whispers and acts of love, her demons take up the space he used to occupy.

They plagued her, they made sure to keep her up, they made sure she’d sleep with nothing but nightmares.

_Where is he? Is he okay? Who is he with? Is he with her? Where did it all go so wrong? What did I lack? _

It took every bit of her strength to keep from reaching out to him because she knows she might end up in his arms – and she can’t have that happen.

When the disconsolation in her heart grows too heavy in its demand to be felt, she lets it come and she’s crying again, very hard, like the universe stripped everything from her - because it did.

But, no matter what and no matter how much all of this is affecting her, she is hopeful. She knows she’s going to get through this, she _has_ to.

  
_ Please survive, live your life _   
_ Mine are wet, yours are dry _

It’s when she finished taping up the last of her boxes that she hears the front door of the apartment jiggling.

With her heart skipping almost painfully in surprise, her wide gaze falls and fixes at the entrance of the unit, whatever she was doing prior abruptly forgotten.

It’s currently half past 3 in the morning and, to a nearly fervent desperation, she prays that it’s not him.

But, of course, who else would it be?

Who else would it be taking a chain of keys out of their pocket and sliding it hastily through the doorknob? Who else would be running back home, missing immensely the person they left to agonize?

When the lockbolt clicks, reverberating through the silence, her breath hitches and she wills herself to move, to stand up and hold her ground and act like she hasn’t been mourning the way she has for days now. The way her chest sinks, the way her vision blurs in an instant, and her heart fluttering weakly at the thought of finally seeing him again, though, made it clear how invested she still is.

On the other side of the door, George curses under his breath, fumbling hard with the keys in his shaking hands as he tries desperately to remember which one is for the apartment. Doing it sober is already enough of a challenge but doing it high out of your mind and drunk out of your wits made it damn near impossible.

He is so fucking nauseous; it’s to the point that his whole orientation is slanted - like the world tilted on its axis.

It’s hard to walk, it’s hard to think, it’s hard to do anything, really, but all his intoxicated heart knows is to come back home to her. To run back, to fucking make things _right_.

For how many days now, he didn’t let himself. He tried to leave her alone knowing he caused enough pain already, but he is so drunk and so high and so fucking lonely and sad and full of remorse for what he’s done he wound up back to what used to be home for them both before he could stop himself.

He craves for her; he yearns for her heart that is so big and loving and so broken because of him.

When the right key finally fits through the doorknob, George nearly topples with solace.

He can’t wait to see her – he can almost feel the warmth of her embrace, the tenderness of her cheek on his chest, and he can almost visualize those beautiful eyes gazing at him so devotedly. Like how she always is to him.

With one long inhale, he enters the door and, at this point, his heart is beating a mile a minute. The spinning in his head exaggerates tenfold - a side effect of his anxiety, his longing for her, and of the vices he has taken tonight.

He powers through the heart attack of an adrenaline rush though, taking his first step back into the apartment – _home_.

The place smells of her – a soft, sweet scent that always got George hooked, especially during the mornings, leaving them both at times extremely late for their jobs.

He almost smiles at the fond memory, the corners of his mouth on their way up but falling flat once he sees what is in front of him.

Only she can look so stunning in the midst of immense sorrow.

Although her eyes are swollen no doubt from her endless crying, the tenderness in them remain even as she looks at him blankly. She doesn’t look like her usual kempt self – her hair pulled back into a ponytail with no real care, her face rid of any make up, her cheeks flushed, her lips pink from her unconscious habit of gnawing on them.

‘_Beautiful’ _is the best his hazy mind can come up with but he means the sentiment with every fiber of his being. He’s in awe – he has no idea why but it feels like he’s falling in love all over again. He’s at a loss for words – just like the first time.

George could feel his pulse quicken, wanting to just fucking kiss her until they both can’t breathe.

But then he's suddenly aware of all the packed boxes littered around the apartment and the temptation of her lips disappear immediately, being replaced with a kind of panic he's never quite felt before.

“What are the boxes for?”

  
_ Can you say, can you say, can you say, can you say _   
_ I'm not the right type _

There is a huge lump in her throat and she feels like she can barely breathe – more so _speak_.

George is standing in front of her and her heart is so painful. The organ in her chest is bleeding out tremendously for him- but it also feels like it would completely break apart if he got any closer.

“What are the boxes for?”

His voice sounds different, she can tell just like that, and one long look at him pieces it together.

If she wasn’t already so upset, this may have gone differently – but seeing him in the flesh again and the fact that she can’t let herself do what she wants to do or say all she wants to say only adds fuel to the raging fire.

“Are you high?” She deadpans, her scrutiny on him harsh and heavy, burning giant holes into his skin.

Although her voice wavers, George feels like he just got punched in the gut. She hates it so much; she hates his vices and only asks him to never come home not sober.

He knows there’s no way around this.

“Wait, please-“ he starts, his hands rising in an attempt to calm her even if his own nerves are spiking, but he is cut off.

She’s shaking her head harshly, looking away as her eyes blur with tears – she’s barely keeping it together and she knows it.

“George,” she manages to get his name out, the taste of it bittersweet on her tongue. “How many times are you going to break my heart?”

Just those words alone, he feels like he sobered up – the intemperance replaced by an overwhelming sense of shame. Her words bounce around his head and he wishes he can make it stop.

He didn’t expect all this to happen; he really believed he’d have her back, that she’d forgive him for breaking her heart, the night ending with them tangled in the sheets of their sanctuary.

He sees, now, how foolish wishful thinking is.

She wipes at her eyes, the first round of tears making their appearance and she’s frustrated she’s crying over him _again, _this time in front of his damn face.

It’s so fucking exhausting – to be so upset and heartbroken over the same person that _clearly_ doesn’t care. My god did she want to hurt him, to break his heart just like he does.

“The boxes are my things,” she nearly whispers, tone soft and injured like she is carrying the weight of the world on her fragile shoulders, yet so sharp - like daggers.

“I’m moving out.” She breathes, finally breaking the news.

The way George is looking at her, it’s as if she’d spoken in an entirely different language. He’s distraught, her words unable to sink in his throbbing head.

It just made it hurt more, really.

“What?” He stammers, his eyes narrowing in a troubled expression. He can feel his face crumple - there is an intense sensation in his chest, he can't describe it, but it's beginning to make him breathless.

Balling her fists, she stands and, even as tears come pouring down her face in endless steams now, she looks him dead in the eyes.

“I said I’m moving out, George.” She repeats, her heart clenching as she does so but she’s determined to hold her ground. There is no turning back.

Just like that – as if he’d been hit by a speeding car – George trembles, the gravity of the situation now being realized in full force.

When he glances around the apartment and the boxes lying around, he feels muddled, like he’s in a deep dream, and he wants to pinch himself just in case he’ll wake up.

“I’ve finished packing,” she continues, sniffling loudly as her heartbreak is too difficult to mask, gesturing weakly. She's trying to hold onto what’s left of her composure but seeing his own falling demeanor, it’s making things way too hard.

_‘Don’t.” _She warns herself.

Taking a second to breathe, she closes her eyes and, when she reopens them, she chooses not to look at George, not wanting to see his face or the expression on it.

“I’m leaving today. You can stay here agai-“

“No.”

She looks up at him without meaning to.

His face is a blank slate, an opposite image of how he was just a few seconds ago – there is no curve of a frown on his lips, no clench in his jaw, no furrowing in his eyebrows, no sign that he is afraid – she’s almost convinced of his nonchalance. But those eyes – those eyes can never lie to her.

They mirrored her own – tears at bay, suppressed with skill.

“That’s not up to you,” she tells him firmly. “You don’t get to make me stay anymore.”

If there is anything in the world that genuinely hurts George, it’s words – and her words tonight have been leaving him with open wounds.

This, though, this is the one that cut deep.

‘_You don’t get to make me stay anymore.’_

The way he breaks, it comes from the inside, starting with the organ in his chest, and it all goes downhill from there.

George’s breaths leave in quick succession and his lungs feel like they’re on fire. Every inhale felt insufficient, every exhale felt too thick. How is breathing suddenly so hard?

He tries to swallow the lump lodged tightly in his throat but to no avail – he’s in agony and he fucking hates how he doesn’t know what to do.

He fucking _hates _himself – that’s it, plain and simple.

“Please don’t go.” He croaks, feeling pathetic with his plea because what the fuck else can he possible say?

At this point, he’s bursting at the seams – every bit of emotion he’s tried to downplay for how many days now demanding to be released. He balls his fists, digging his long nails into the skin of his palms.

In front of George, the beautiful woman well on her way to becoming another being of his past sniffles, her red, puffy eyes still kind towards him but also set – determined to move on from this. From him.

“I never would have left you if you didn’t give me any reason to.” Is all she says because she doesn't need to explain any further than that. He knows.

For the first time in a long time, he finds himself bawling – the kind where it feels like it would never end. He’s a complete mess and he’s begging her, practically on his knees asking for forgiveness, but she resists even if she starts to sob harder herself.

“Love us again, please-” he’s sputtering now, throwing up his emotions, desperate, choking on his own words.

She shakes her head softly.

“I wish I could forgive you,”

  
_ Appreciate the silence _   
_ Nothing here on my end _   
_ Please feel free to send a signal _   
_ Please feel free to miss me a little _

It’s been a month since she left him - since she left an unfillable void in this apartment and a gaping hole in his chest. He continues to rub salt on his wounds and George is getting worse each passing day.

For the first few weeks, he called relentlessly. He messaged her paragraphs at a time and would foolishly wait up until ungodly hours of the night for her to answer. But, of course, no replies were received and no missed phone calls were returned.

At this point, he memorizes her voicemails and he absolutely _hates_ the new one.

When he called her on the first day stretching to the first week after she left, he was sent straight to her first voicemail, the one she’s had for nearly two years.

It was him and her on the recording.

_‘If I don’t answer the phone, it’s _**– because we’re fooling around!**’ ‘_George, why!’_

It ends with her scolding him and his loud laughter in the background.

Back then, he had teased her to use it and, even though she didn’t want it to be that particular recording, she let it stick. He asked her before why and she told him it’s because it makes him happy.

He should have known how good he had it.

Now, her new voicemail did anything but make him smile.

_‘I’m sorry I couldn’t pick up the phone but leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you.’_

It’s deafening hearing her sound so sad, you can tell even by the first word and he hates it – he hates it so much because he knows he’s the reason why.

He stopped calling her after about two weeks. He hopes every day that she’d call him back, to reply to his messages, or just send any damn signal that she still thought about him because he thought about her constantly – it’s tormenting but he can’t – _doesn’t_ – want to stop because it’s all he has left of her.

No matter how many clubs he’s gone to, how many bottles he's finished, how many bowls he’s smoked, how many bodies writhed beneath him at night, the number of times his name was moaned- nothing can ever replace or replicate how he felt when he was with her. Not even close.

It’s been a whole month without her and he only wishes she thought about him too - even in passing, even just sometimes.

_ Either way, either way, either way, either way _   
_ You would've been fine _   
_ Write a page, write a page, write a page, write a page _   
_ I'ma write a long time _

She’s moved on and she knows now it’s for certain.

She no longer turns away from men who have dark brown eyes or lopsided grins or had voices that remind her of beautiful music.

She's smiling, laughing even, at the handsome man in front of her.

He regards her playful banter with a good-natured smile, accompanying his simper with an endearing chuckle that causes a surge of heat to rise to her cheeks.

They’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. Although too soon to say, she really does have a good feeling about this one – she is genuinely happy, even if he used to remind her of George.

Even though, at times, his face would appear in her head without reason and some memories of them would play behind her eyelids, it no longer makes her angry.

Sad, a tiny bit, yes, but now they’re just precious. These memories, after all, are from a period where she felt the happiest in her life and nothing can ever take that away from what she and George shared.

They haven’t spoken in a very long time; he still tries to reach out to her but she doesn’t let him in. She doesn’t want to give herself a reason to look back - despite wondering here and there how he is and if he’s alright.

He’s blowing up though, that's for certain – she'd see his name on billboards and, at times, hear his songs on the radio.

Although she tries not to look too long at his posters and opts to change the station when his voice comes on, she is so immensely proud of him.

This is the life he’s always wanted.

A serious career where he can let his stunning talents shine – his happiness is all she ever wanted for him and, even though she isn’t a part of it anymore, she thanks God every night for all that He’s been giving George.

He deserves it.

“Are you alright?” The man in front of her asks.

Unbeknownst to her that she had spaced out, she blinks, properly surprised before coming back to her wits.

“Oh yeah, yeah, sorry about that,” she chuckles, slightly embarrassed with her sudden inattentiveness.

He waves her off, like she’s silly to even apologize.

“Don’t worry about it, you just looked very deep in thought.”

She smiles softly- sincerely -nodding her head. “Yeah - I'm just thankful for everything.”


End file.
